Tell me, oh fairy king, do I fit the narrative?
Am I pretty enough? Am I witty enough? Is my skin
the dun of a cow? Am I beautiful or am I wretched,
with poisoned brains and nightshade eyes. Are my
breasts fit for suckling changelings, will I be
the tithe to Hell? Or am I to be Midir’s bride,
a fluttering Etain caged in a box by Aengus Og.
There are two ways this story could go: eat, or
be eaten. I could eat the food of the underworld
and become Thomasina the Rhymer, and when I return
back to the human world, aback a dapple steed, my
lover and family would be centuries gone, and were
I to step off the ship of dreams, I would crumble
to dust. Is being spirited away by the fey freedom
or a cage? Will my wrists softly burn in crystal
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